


I'm Not Brittle, I'm Just a Riddle

by thereweregiants



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Trans Clint Barton, pizza and porn and not much else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants/pseuds/thereweregiants
Summary: Bucky runs into Clint. Then he just keeps running into him.That's how you make friends, right?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 18
Kudos: 136





	I'm Not Brittle, I'm Just a Riddle

**Author's Note:**

> a smol birthday present for Nan, who is a dork who refuses to get ao3 <3
> 
> language used to describe Clint's business is what he'd use himself if you asked
> 
> title from AWOLNATION's [Handyman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4YFCdYFXTY)

Bucky runs into him at a hole in the wall pizza shop, one of those places that no one is supposed to know about.

Well. Obviously enough people know about it to keep it in business, but it’s no one Bucky knows and that’s what’s important. But here’s Clint fucking Barton coming out of the grimy door with a couple of slices on a greasy plate, just barely staying on the limp paper. He tears a piece of crust off and leans down slightly to feed it to a large tied up dog, shaggy and a handful of shades darker than Clint’s hair. 

Bucky can tell when Clint notices him, a slight tenseness of his shoulders, eyes that shoot around the street like he’s waiting for an attack. Then he seems to notice the beat-up leather jacket that Bucky’s wearing, the boots likely older than Clint is, the knit hat pulled down over long hair. Civvies.

“I don’t think dogs are supposed to eat pizza,” Bucky says by way of greeting.

Clint shrugs. “I seduced him with pizza the first time, you can’t just put out like that once and then take it away.” 

Bucky blinks. 

The dog licks his chops, looks at Bucky with a measuring look in his eyes. Eye, actually. Just the one. Figures that Clint would have a dog as battered as he is. He gets up and takes a few steps forward, sniffing delicately at Bucky’s hand, then the metal one, before turning around and sitting his ass down right on Bucky’s foot. “Boof,” he says calmly, before leaning his head back against Bucky’s thigh and looking up at him, ears flopping around goofily. 

Bucky finds himself scratching a furry neck before he quite knows what he’s doing.

“Didn’t even take pizza to get to you, huh,” Clint says. Bucky doesn’t startle, though he wants to. He’d forgotten Clint was there for a moment. Bad move, Barnes. 

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to get any,” Bucky says after a moment too long. “Best slice in the city.”

Clint nods genially, a smile tugging at the edge of a broad mouth. “Come on, Luck,” he says. “See you around, Bucky.” 

Bucky lifts a hand in farewell, that ends in scratching the dog’s head one last time.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The next time Bucky sees Clint, they’re both bleeding. They weren’t supposed to be teamed up, Bucky had been investigating someone who was probably an informant for AIM, Clint had been...Bucky didn’t know what Clint had been doing, but he was suited up and working alone. 

Bucky killed the guy he'd been watching, though he didn’t mean to. He’s crouched down underneath the Williamsburg Bridge, watching the body sink down into the East River. He hears Clint land next to him, having jumped down from somewhere or other. 

“Fun evening?”

Bucky shrugs. He’s wearing the mask today, but he’s somehow sure that Clint can tell what his face is doing anyways. He glances over. There’s smears of dark on Clint’s shirt that may or may not belong to him, a few cuts on his arms, a slice that traces right below his cheekbone and is slowly dripping down. “You okay?” he asks, before he realizes he’s asking.

Clint shrugs himself in return. His eyes go to where Bucky got stabbed in the ribs. The knife bounced off, no major harm done. Curious that Clint knew right where the injury was even though Bucky’s black armor was doing its job in hiding it. “You?” he asks, and Bucky stands and starts to walk away rather than answer. Clint follows. 

The nondescript car of the week that Bucky is using until it gets wrecked past use is still there, somehow not stolen. He shrugs off some body armor and takes off his mask, replaces it with a baggy black hoodie. He’ll say this for modern fashion: it can hide weapons and injuries much easier than the structured clothing of his youth. 

Clint sticks his bow in the backseat without asking, pulls out a tightly folded windbreaker from a pocket in his quiver and tugs it on. “Pretzel?” he asks, and Bucky nods.

They wander down the street until they find a stand. Hot dogs, not pretzels, but it’s probably better to have the protein anyways. Assuming it came from an actual animal in the first place. Clint slathers his with every condiment available, making Bucky wince. He sticks to spicy mustard and kraut on his own. They munch away as they walk down the street in companionable silence, ending up on a bench as they eat the last of their food.

It’s a nice night, and they sit and listen for a while to the insects. Not just the whine of summer mosquitoes, but the groan of cicadas and eventually the chorus of spring peepers that must be inhabiting some unseen pond. It doesn’t get awkward, exactly, but Bucky feels - itchy. Uneasy. There’s a body with his fingerprints on the neck in the river and a hot dog in his stomach and for some reason he’s sitting here at one in the morning with Clint goddamn Barton.

He gets up and makes his way back to the car, Clint following easily next to him. 

“You - need a ride?” he asks haltingly when he unlocks the car and Clint pulls his gear out. 

“Nah,” Clint says. “Thanks for the company, though.” He ambles away and Bucky scratches at a healing cut, vaguely confused at what just happened.

-x-x-x-x-x-

It happens a few more times, nothing really regular. Almost always near Brooklyn somewhere, though once they find each other in Brighton Beach. Bucky speaks quiet Russian to the proprietor in a cafe, gets them meat filled pirozhki and blini. He laughs at Clint trying to navigate the rolled crepes, ending up with sour cream and sweet cherries on his cheeks. 

Bucky realizes after that he’s not sure when the last time he laughed was. 

One time Clint is injured past what’s normal, passed out in an alley and freely bleeding from a head wound. Bucky cleans him up the best he can, tapes his head together. He calls Nat, gets her voicemail. She still shows up ten minutes later, black velvet dress making it look like she’d been at the ballet. Likely was, knowing her.  


She seems vaguely bemused that Bucky is the one taking care of Clint, but doesn't comment apart from a single arched red eyebrow and helps Bucky load him into his car all the same. She has him drop them off at a corner in Brooklyn, and won’t tell him where she’s going. Nat hefts Clint easily over one shoulder and trips her way delicately down the street in her spike heels like it’s nothing. 

Bucky watches them disappear into the dark New York night and is surprised at how he cares what happens.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Eventually it comes to a head, because that’s what everything does, in one way or another. Bucky gets into a fight, a bad one. He’s the Winter Soldier, but put that up against enough people with no backup and it stops mattering. Sitting on a bench underneath a burned out streetlamp, Bucky can feel his body slowly putting itself back together. He heals faster than normal people, but right now it’s battling against the blood loss and he’s not quite sure what’s going to win.

A blink, and he’s alone. A second blink, and Clint’s in front of him. Street clothes, the one-eyed dog on a leash next to him. The dog licks at Bucky’s hand, and his fingers just barely twitch in response. The dog whines, upset.  _ You and me both, buddy, _ Bucky thinks.

Flashes, then. Stumbling down a street with Clint under his arm. Leaning up against a building with the dog pressed to his legs, a soft growl rumbling through as Clint argues with some men in - tracksuits? Stairs, endless stairs. The smell of antiseptic, the prick of needles. Bucky would pay more attention but his hindbrain says  _ safe, safe _ and so the rest of him just - checks out. 

-x-x-x-x-x-

Bucky awakens with his face buried in an unfamiliar pillow. It smells of musk and sleep and aftershave; it smells of man. The light says it’s somewhere around noon, perhaps a bit after. He tries to sit up but there’s a weight on his chest and an unhappy sound. He looks down to see the one eyed dog’s heavy head resting on his breastbone, breathing his doggy breath up into Bucky’s face. 

“I need to get up, you know,” he says to the dog quietly like it can understand him, voice rusty with disuse. The dog gives him a surprisingly judgemental look for having just the one eye - and you know, being a dog - and gets up. He ambles to the top of the stairs and gives a soft woof. 

“You up?” Clint’s voice comes from downstairs. “Shower’s off to your left, there’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet. I’ll find you some clothes.”

Bucky gets up, discomfited to find he’s been stripped down to underwear. He’s neatly bandaged, though, clean white with the occasional red seeping through covering much of his torso and arm. 

He showers quickly. Clint has shitty shampoo but nice soap, and Bucky feels better as he turns the water off. There’s a stack of clothes sitting on the edge of the sink that weren’t there when he got in, and Bucky puts on the shirt and sweatpants without complaint. The pants are long and the shirt’s a bit tight, but it works. He rebandages cuts that are still bleeding with the kit left out, thankfully it’s not too many. There are a few rows of neat stitches, one on his thigh and one on his lower stomach, that get gauze lightly taped over them. After brushing his teeth he carefully makes his way down the stairs. 

Clint has his back to him, poking at something on the stove. “We’re doing breakfast for lunch, mostly because eggs are pretty much all I have,” he says without turning around. “Have some coffee.”

Bucky drinks out of a mug that looks like it was painted by a child, except it says ‘Kate Bishop age 20’ along the bottom. Clint puts a plate of eggs and potatoes and ham in front of Bucky, then leans against the kitchen counter drinking straight out of the carafe. 

“So what happened?” he asks, and Bucky supposes he deserves an answer.

“Some old friends. Hydra.” 

Clint rolls his eyes. “Those dicks,” he says, like they’re nothing more than local gangsters. He looks at Bucky, mouth curved in a slight smile but blue eyes serious. “They still got shit in your head?”

Bucky wants to laugh, wants to cry. Shit in his head. What a quaint, succinct way of saying ‘brainwashed to kill everything and everyone he’s ever loved’. That’s Clint for you. He shakes his head. “It’s - complicated, but it’s locked down right now.” For the moment. 

There’s a scrape of a fork, and Bucky looks down to realize in surprise that he’s finished everything on his plate. He needs the fuel, apparently. Standing to put the plate in the sink, he finds himself swaying. When his vision clears, Clint’s got a shoulder tucked under his own, a strong arm around his waist. Unlike most people, Clint isn’t shying away from the inhumanly metal arm that’s growing out of Bucky’s shoulder.

“Let’s get you back upstairs, I don’t think you’re ready for much more than sleep right now.”

Clint puts Bucky back in bed - his bed, Bucky realizes - and scratches at the back of his neck as Bucky sleepily rubs his face against the soft pillow. He should have shaved, he absently thinks as the scraping sound reaches his ears. Belatedly, he realizes that Clint is talking.

“-oing to go out for a bit. Kate’s got some play that she helped out in, wanted me to see it with her. Shouldn’t be long, or at least I’m praying it’s not. Lucky’s here if you need anything,” Clint nods over at the dog, and Bucky fully believes that Clint thinks the dog can help him, somehow. “There’s food in - well, actually there’s not, but there’s a stack of takeout menus and cash in the cookie jar on top of the fridge. Get sleep, though.”

Bucky’s nodding until he’s nodding off, and the last thing he remembers is the dog curling up by his feet.

-x-x-x-x-x-

When he wakes up next, it’s dark out. The apartment is quiet, the loudest noise the dog snores on the other side of the bed. There’s a pool of golden light over near the window - Clint curled up in an armchair, book in hand and a lamp over his head. Despite Bucky not making noise, he seems to know he’s being watched and looks up.

“How you holding up?”

Bucky tests out his limbs, muscles stretching in precise order of long practice. Everything is about as healed as it usually is. He sits up in bed, pushes the dog over some. Carefully, he picks at the bandages, making sure the skin underneath is pink and healed before pulling it away. All that’s left is the stitches, holding together skin that no longer needs it.

“You got nail clippers?” 

Clint looks at where Bucky has his shirt pulled up to show the stitches, shaking his head more out of amusement than refusal. He goes into the bathroom, coming out with a small, sharp pair of scissors and a set of tweezers. Turning the light on next to Bucky, he motions for the other man to swing his legs off the side of the bed. 

Kneeling, Clint settles himself between Bucky’s thighs as he steadies his arm on a knee. Bucky breathes carefully, carefully. This isn’t the time for what his hindbrain is thinking about, for the pictures it keeps shooting across of what Clint could be doing instead while he’s down there. 

It’s not a problem Bucky normally has. Something - everything - in him broke, all those years ago, and he’s only now been able to slowly put things back together. Nat helped, but they both knew that it wasn't healthy for either of them. And since her it’s been nothing, no one. It’s not like Bucky really spends that much time around people anyways, moves too fast to get attracted to anyone. 

But then there’s Clint. Clint, who keeps showing up. Clint who is picking stitches out of Bucky’s skin with murmured apologies every time one of them pulls. Clint, who is on his knees for Bucky and it’s all Bucky can do to sit on his hands and bite his lip.

Without him noticing Clint has Bucky’s pants around his knees, is cutting the stitches that wrap around the outside of his left thigh. Bucky’s glad for the pain, it keeps things from getting more embarrassing than they could have been. He knows people for whom the stabbing in his skin would be a turn on, but he’s not one of them. He’s spent far too much of his life in pain to ever get anything out of it than what it is.

The last of the black threads come out and Clint sets the scissors and tweezers down on the nightstand. Before he can move away Bucky reaches down, traces a thumb across a broad cheekbone and down a stubbled cheek. His other fingers rest gently along the softness under the square cut of Clint’s jaw, and Bucky can just barely feel his pulse as it starts to pick up.

Clint’s eyes are large and dark in the dim lighting, almost alien in their unreadability. He looks at Bucky for a long moment before asking, “Is this a thank you?”

As much as Bucky wants to say it is, that it’s just him trying to give appreciation with his body because his words have never come the easiest, it’s not. His head shakes in a no before he has any input, and he can see Clint’s shoulders relax the smallest bit. 

Clint straightens up on his knees from where he’d been sitting on his heels, takes Bucky’s face in a gentle hold. Bucky closes his eyes at it - he’s still not used to being touched other than in violence. It took months before he could handle Nat’s hand on his, handle Steve’s clap on the back. 

Now though, there’s a touch at his lips and he relaxes into it. Lets himself lean forward into Clint’s hands, into the chapped lips that slide and catch against his own. He feels Clint tilt his head slightly and - 

Oh.

Bucky wants to say it’s been a long time, but he doesn’t know if it’s quite ever been like this. Careful kisses that push him back, that soon have him flat on his back with Clint above him, warm and heavy and perfect. Clint is sure of himself, the same confidence in his movements as when he pulls back his bow. It’s not that he’s treating Bucky like he’s made of glass, it’s like he’s testing out a weapon. Making sure he can take the pressure here before pushing harder, then pushing over there, then over there. 

Soon Bucky’s world is reduced to Clint, warm skin and heavy muscles, the smell of sweat and coffee and just faintly a trace of beeswax. Bucky is hard, harder than he can remember being and he’s pushing up into Clint’s thigh, who pushes back until Bucky is trying not to moan into his mouth. 

Shirts are there and then shirts are gone, and Bucky traces his hands over skin that’s as marked as his own. He feels gunshots, stab wounds, a thousand types of knife. Sliding his hand underneath loose sweatpants he feels scars here too. Wonders who would dare damage an ass that feels like  _ this, _ all high tight muscle that tenses and releases as Clint slowly rolls his hips down.

Bucky moves his hand around slowly, back to front, curling around a hip - and Clint stops. Stops moving, grips Bucky’s wrist with one strong hand as he props himself up with the other. Clint’s pupils are blown wide and his mouth is swollen but there’s a set to his jaw that looks like he’s getting ready for a fight. 

“You need to know,” he says, and Bucky tilts his head slightly in confusion. Clint pulls Bucky’s hand out of his pants but then presses it on top, his fingers sweaty against the fabric. Clint pushes Bucky’s hand down and down and it never reaches the hardness that Bucky expects. It’s soft and damp and warm down there, and Bucky shakes Clint’s hand off as he presses his fingers into Clint’s heat.

He shakes his head and says, “I’m missing an arm. We’ve all got our things.” Clint’s face is relaxing now and he bends back down to kiss Bucky, harder and filthier than before. Bucky takes the opportunity to shove Clint’s pants down, to press his fingers against damp curls of hair and the wet folds of Clint’s cunt. Clint groans into Bucky’s mouth and Bucky chases the sound, pressing up and up until he’s pushing Clint over and rolling on top. 

Bucky’s mouth explored where his fingers had, lips finding a hundred scars marked deep into pale skin. Clint is moving, writhing but Bucky presses him down with merciless hands, kisses lower and lower. 

Clint’s pants go flying somewhere behind them, and despite what they said and did, Clint tenses up once more. Bucky looks down, looks up. “Guess you’re a natural blond,” he says and as Clint barks out startled laughter he reaches down to part his legs. 

Clint tastes like salt and sour, like secret places you need a password to get into. It’s been - half a century since Bucky’s done this last, but he listens to the rise and fall of Clint’s voice, uses tongue and fingers the best he knows how. Clint has fingers with thick bowstring calluses twisted into Bucky’s hair, pushes him this way and that according to whim. Bucky can’t hear it when Clint comes, his thighs are tight against his ears as his cunt clenches around Bucky’s fingers like he means to break them. 

Bucky laps at Clint slowly through the twitching aftermath, until Clint is pulling Bucky up to kiss him, to taste himself on Bucky’s lips. “Christ I need you to fuck me,” he breathes into Bucky’s mouth, and he uses his feet to shove Bucky’s borrowed sweatpants halfway down. “Come on,” he says, like Bucky needs encouragement, “Come on.”

He pauses to suck a mark into Clint’s neck, something that will last for longer than the night even if nothing else does. Bucky pauses and meets Clint’s eyes, but he doesn’t mention a condom so Bucky figures he knows what he’s doing. Bucky kicks off his pants, shuffles closer. Spreads Clint wide with his fingers, taking a moment to rub viciously over his clit and grin at the curses he gets in response. 

Sliding into Clint is like stepping into the hot shower this morning, like drinking the coffee after that. Not like coming home, but all the warmth and comforts therein. Clint’s legs are longer than Bucky’s, they wrap tightly around until they’re sealed together, as much one creature as anything else. Bucky grinds forward, hips a slow roll as they breathe hot into one another's mouths. 

Clint has one hand clenched tight in Bucky’s hair, the other wrapped around his ribcage. He’s so strong, Bucky doesn’t know if he’s ever fucked someone that could probably use their thighs to break his pelvis if they wanted. Clint loosens his grip a bit, lets Bucky thrust in like he wants to. He finds himself murmuring into Clint’s ear, filth about how he feels, how he could do this forever, how good Clint tastes that make Bucky want to blush even as it comes out of his own mouth, even as Clint groans deep into his ear.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts - all night? perhaps - but eventually Bucky starts to lose his rhythm, to get faster and needier and off kilter. He gets a hand down between them, lets Clint grind up against it until he’s breathless and clenching around Bucky so tight it hurts. It’s hearing Clint’s small helpless noises of pleasure right in his ear more than anything else that pushes Bucky past the point of controlling himself anymore. He pulls out, cock slick and throbbing in his hand as he comes hot across Clint’s stomach, striping him nearly up to his neck. 

Bucky collapses down afterwards, heedless of the mess between them. Clint’s fingers have gone gentle, scratching his scalp and undoing the tangled damage. It’s eventually too sticky to ignore and Clint shoves Bucky off to the side and roots around on the floor, coming up with a t-shirt that he wipes between his thighs and across his chest before tossing it at Bucky. Bucky grimaces but cleans the worst up from himself as well.

Clint lays back in bed, props his head up on one hand. He looks Bucky over, eyes half closed and sated and not a little smug. “So are you going to disappear into the darkness of night, or are you going to stick around?”

The question is delivered easily, but Bucky can see the faint tightness at the corner of Clint’s eyes. He shrugs, settling himself more comfortably in bed. “Not going to disappear, but I’ve been sleeping all day.”

Chewing on his lip for a minute, Clint says, overly-casual: “We could go get pizza. I know a place.”

Bucky nods. Yeah, that could work. They know a place. “Sure,” he says, but he’s already leaning over to press a kiss to Clint’s mouth, to push him back into the mattress. “Sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/thereweregiants) although there is nothing to do with Marvel there sorry


End file.
